


Without Granting Innocence

by brittlestars



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Wilson Fisk levels of violence, grimdark fake marriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22057921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlestars/pseuds/brittlestars
Summary: Starting off again as Nelson, Murdock and Page felt good, and hopeful, and right. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and, sometimes, those intentions can help the bad guys. Foggy makes a desperate bid to protect Matt and everything spirals from there.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 33
Collections: DDE’s 2020 New Year’s Day Exchange





	1. Drive until you lose the road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katbelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/gifts).



Foggy is preparing to initiate negotiations with one of the numerous thugs holding him and another guy captive when all hell breaks loose. It starts when the overhead fluorescent lights click off in unison, plunging the open space into deep shadows. The thugs shout in a language Foggy assumes is Albanian. The other hostage bound to the pillar behind Foggy's back shouts in a language that is decidedly pissed-off New Yorker. Foggy sighs, casting his gaze to each warehouse doorway he'd pinpointed earlier. 

One of the doors flies open with an echoing bang. Half a dozen burly silhouetted shapes rush in, boots pounding. As they fan out into the dim warehouse floor, Foggy hears a series of thuds and cut-off shouts.

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen is already inside.

The hostage behind Foggy resumes tugging at the cable ties binding their hands. The yanking digs plastic into Foggy's wrists. "Stop that," Foggy snaps, continuing to strain his eyes in the direction of the rapidly intensifying sounds of fighting.

"Are you fucking crazy? I can't be trapped in here with the Devil."

"He's here to rescue us," Foggy snarls, finally turning his head. He still can't quite see the other captive, so he takes a deep breath and tries to convey reasonableness in a more even tone of voice. "Better Daredevil than the mob "

"You ARE fucking crazy. At least the Albanians got souls." 

Foggy turns his attention away from the man's cursing and continued yanks on their bound hands. He remembers an offhand comment Matt once made at Columbia about situational awareness and suddenly realizes there's more to those words than blindness.

Foggy catalogs his surroundings. Before the lights were cut, he'd counted maybe eighteen thugs in the huge open warehouse, most of them leaning against a sidewall, smoking cigarettes. He didn't remember seeing much in the way of weaponry beyond knives, though he suspected they must be carrying -- 

Three booming flashes of light explode as a handgun is fired on the periphery of Foggy's line of sight. His whole body spasms and jerks each time. The noise is impossibly loud, sudden and terrifying this close.

Foggy hates being right.

The flashes of light illuminate bodies crumpled on the warehouse floor and, like single, terrible still images, a ring of thugs closing in on a lone, whirling combatant. The gun clatters on the cement floor, knocked aside by a spinning kick.

Foggy blinks, eyes readjusting to the dim. 

Daredevil is a ghostly blur in light gray; Matt hadn't even stopped to get the armor, he'd just burst in swinging. Now that Foggy's got his visual bearings, he follows the fight as it tumbles through sparse pools of reflected moonlight.

Intellectually, Foggy has always known that Daredevil hurts people. But it's easy to forget how the number of broken bones and punctured lungs must add up. He wonders briefly what proportion of the bad guys don't go to the hospital, don't have their injuries cataloged by cops. He wonders if Matt knows many of his victims never make it. It's an abstract thought.

Witnessing Daredevil fight is another matter entirely. Foggy is being forced to see and hear Matt dripping blood and grinning at the crunch of bone and snap of cartilage. Foggy is being forced to face the visceral understanding that the conductor of this macabre chorus is Matt, his Matt. 

It's grotesque. 

Foggy has seen Matt move freely before, when Matt took him to an empty warehouse soon after Nelson v Murdock. Matt had showed off an acrobatic dance. Foggy remember lots of unnecessary flips. They traded witty quips to ease the tension of the new framing of their relationship.

This is nothing like that evening. This is ruthless and efficient. From what little Foggy can see in the shadows, Daredevil's movements are without flair; Matt discarded style and is favoring raw violence. 

Foggy startles with each cracking snap and heavy thud. The noises seem to come from random directions, sudden and echoing back. He tries to remind himself through the panting and grunting that it's okay; it's just Matt. Just Matt making these grown thugs cry out in pain. 

A body collapses a few meter in front of Foggy. The man's head rolls back, blink lanky red hair from his wide eyes. He's murmuring something under his breath. As Foggy pulls his wits together he realizes the man is praying. 

Daredevil sweeps into view, jabs the crumpled man in the gut twice. The man curls in more, collapses fully to the cement. He doesn't move.

The body reeks of urine. 

A huge shadow comes roaring, tackling Daredevil -- Matt, that's Matt -- from the side. Foggy can't see where they land but there's a crash, followed by more thuds. 

Whump. Whump. Whump-whump-whump.

Between the blows Foggy starts to hear a whine, high-pitched. The noise is reedy and ragged, almost a whistle. He looks down and realizes it's the man at his feet. Something's wrong with his breathing.

Off to the right, the thudding whumps continue unabated, telegraphing repeated fist blows to a body. There is no bell to strike to end the round, no ring to step out of. There is only the Devil, and the dark, and the pained sound of struggling lungs.

He wishes he couldn't hear and occasionally glimpse Matt, a predator moving in the shadows. Done toying with his punching bag victim somewhere off to Foggy's right, Daredevil appears back in view. His back is to Foggy. His shoulders heave as he pants deep, rapid breaths. He cocks his head to the side and then Foggy hears the electric whine of a motor followed by a mechanical rumbling. A long narrow strip of moonlight appears at the base of the far wall, growing taller and taller as an enormous loading dock door rolls upward. 

A shadow of a man slants into the warehouse, looming. Theres is a long protrusion in his hands. A rifle, supplies the part of Foggy's brain that isn't busy being nauseated and terrified. 

Daredevil shifts, centering his weight low and dangerous. The shadow of the rifleman doesn't move.

As the echo of the door sliding into place dies out, the only sounds in the warehouse are the moans of the few conscious men on the floor, Matt's panting, and the other captives steady stream of cursing. Foggy hears his own heartbeat loudest of all.

Daredevil rushes the opening, a flat-out sprint over open terrain.

Rather than raise the rifle sights to his eyes, the shadow tilts his head down and grins, crooked slash of a mouth glinting too many teeth. 

Foggy can't look away as the gunman's finger moves ever so slightly against the gun at his hip. A tremendous bang cracks through the air. 

But Matt's still standing, still charging forward. There is an echo of a grin on his face and Foggy's stomach lurches again.

But Matt's still standing. The shot must have missed!

But then Matt dives for the figure and Foggy sees it: the huge rolling door of the loading dock rattles downward. The shadow takes a single step backward. The door collides with Matt's outstretch arms. Matt's body is slammed into the ground.

Foggy cries out. His voice is lost in the boom the door.

The warehouse goes dark again. Foggy blinks, straining to see if Matt is awake in the light of three distant emergency exit signs, and the cloudy dim of the half-moon through high ventilation slits.

A dead weight slides into Foggy's shoulder. The hostage tied to the other side of the pillar has passed out. Foggy closes his eyes, thinking "me too, buddy, me too" and feeling green at the gills. He wishes his hands were bound loose enough that he could sink to his knees, catch his breath.

He hears a long, low groan from the direction of the loading dock door. The sound of something heavy sliding across the floor. Heavy footsteps.

The pale shape of a man in a bloody business suit trudges into a pool of light. Both of his arms are held down at an unnaturally limp angle. His head twitches on his neck, sweeping back and forth.

A side door behind Foggy opens. The darkness is pierced by a shaft of light, flickering as more men rush in. They're in a tight formation, shouting.

Again, without warning, Matt loses it. If Foggy thought before was a mindless machine of violence, he doesn't have words for this carnage. 

Foggy's gonna faint too. He's hyperventilating and Matt is crashing though an impossible number of guys and then they're all on the ground and the Devil is stomping them each as he rushes over. Blood sprays with each crunch, a fleeting, backlit mist of shining red droplets.

Foggy might lose track of time because he suddenly registers that he his seated on the ground. His back is still against the post but his hands are unbound.

The Devil is a few feet in front of him. The Devil has limp redheaded man underfoot. The Devil is pummeling his elbows into what was a face and now is pulp. Foggy's unsteady mind flashes images of grainy TV news video: a giant green brute smashing armored aliens.

The Hulk is a monster, fighting monsters. The Devil is his best friend, and the redhead was unconscious long ago.

"Matt," Foggy groans. 

The Devil's head snaps up, locks on. His best courtroom suit is glistening, soaking, dripping red. 

"Matt, stop. Please." Then Foggy turns his head to the side, vomits, and passes out.


	2. We need to talk

Claire is unimpressed when Foggy winces at her inspection of the ointment she'd applied earlier to his wrists. Knowing that the universe would never be so kind as to arrange this at random, Foggy strongly suspect Claire negotiated her way into being his and Matt's attending nurse. Either way, he's very grateful to her and to the universe at large. Somehow his gratitude takes the form of needing to explain, to somehow justify the scenario. "You don't understand--" he begins, forcing himself to keep his hands steady for her. The plastic chair is uncomfortable, but he manages. 

Claire steps back, crosses her arms, and stares Foggy down. "I sure as hell don't. More than 20 people are in the ICU."

Sheets rustle softly as Matt shifts in the room's only hospital bed. "They're alive," he murmurs. His voice betrays none of the hoarseness Foggy suspected.

"For now! The ICU is where people go who might not live. And some of them were cops."

Foggy's eyes go wide with shock. "Cops?" he echoes. 

Matt says nothing. His fingers splay and relax.

Foggy slumps back into the horrid chair, eyes lingering on Matt's white collared shirt in the room's trash can. The bit he can see is bloodstained. Matt's suit jacket was nowhere to be seen. Foggy sighs. "More dirty cops."

Matt's fingers twitch like he wants to itch his casts. Both bones of both of his forearms are broken. What little skin can be seen around his hospital gown alternates between patches of red, swollen scrapes and dark, swollen bruises.

"Matt?"

"Not... that I know of."

"You chose to beat up good cops?"

Matt flinches this time. He says nothing. 

Claire gasps, a tiny but sharp inhalation. "You didn't know."

Foggy looks to her, confused. 

"He didn't know they were cops," Claire repeats. 

"Of course he knew. He always knows. His freaky--"

"--Foggy," Matt rasps. 

Foggy cuts himself off.

"I'm tired," Matt says, turning his head though his body is too trussed to turn in kind. He is pale and somehow small, lying on the stiff bed surrounded by screens monitoring his health. Foggy doesn't know how to read the numbers there, but he does know how to read his friend. Matt's feeling overwhelmed.

Foggy considers reaching to slip his hand inside Matt's. He waits a moment, then tucks his hands into his pockets. Matt's eyes are still shut. Neither of them speaks. 

Claire gives up on her pretense of reading Matt's chart and tugs Foggy out the door.

Foggy looks over his shoulder at Matt as he lets Claire lead him out to the hall. Matt's chin is resting on collarbone, face angled away from the door. Foggy waits for the door to click shut, knowing it doesn't matter, before muttering, "Such BS. He never admits to being tired."

Claire crooks a ghost of a grin but it fades quickly. She reaches over to straighten Foggy's collar, letting her hand rest on his shoulder for a moment. "Maybe he didn't know they were cops until just now."

And now Foggy feels even more like shit. He should... he should go back in there, actually hold Matt's hand. Apologize. Thank Matt for saving him.

Claire follows Foggy's line of sight, nods her head in the direction of the door. "I got him a private room and brought you over as fast as I could so you could figure out what to do."

"To do?"

"The cops are going to want statements. Matt wasn't wearing ID when he was brought in but he was identified by one of the desk staff. They remembered him visiting you last time."

Foggy curses the friendly rapport he built with all his caretakers the last time he was in this hospital. 

Claire sees Foggy's wince. "Yea, you get it. You two need to come up with a cover story, ASAP."

"What can we--" Foggy begins, but another nurse is rushing up to Claire. 

"Freddy?" Claire asks, negating Foggy with a single, brusque sideways shake of her head. 

"Shirley wants us downstairs. Multiple burn patients inbound."

"ETA?" Claire asks, already following Freddy toward the stairs. She doesn't look back.

Foggy laces his fingers together, but the motion agitates the bandages on his wrists. It burns. He drops his hands, turns, and re-enters Matt's room. 

Foggy pulls the chair to the edge of Matt's bed but he doesn't sit. "We need to get our story straight," he begins.

Matt's voice is flat. "Poindexter's alive."

"I was really, really hoping that wasn't him."

"I wasn't certain, at first. He's different. Smells... off. I need to find out what his goals are. Where he's hiding. How he's still alive." Matt picks up speed as he realizes something else: "And the other hostage. What do you know about him? Why was he kidnapped? Did he see my face?"

Foggy peers into the side of Matt's face. "You have got to be kidding me." 

Matt turns away. "I need to know."

"You're thinking of going back out there."

"I need to know, Foggy."

"Of course, who am I kidding; you're always thinking of going back out there. "

"You're being targeted--"

"You can't beat information out of people when you have two broken arms."

"I'll be fine."

"No way you can do what I just saw."

"I have other methods."

"You warned me it was bad but I didn't think..." Foggy swallows back bile.

Matt's voice is small. "It... I'm not normally like that."

"But this time..?"

"They had you and I - I heard a heart stop, just for a second. It was the other hostage, but I thought it was you. His heart stopped and I saw red. I literally saw red. I can't let anything happen to you, Foggy. If you died...." The Devil's grim slash of a smile emerges. "I won't let that happen. Ever."

"Maybe don't rush in to fight a mob of people without--"

"--Ever," Matt repeats. "It doesn't matter if it's ten people or a hundred or a thousand. Didn't matter if it was guns or knives or dogs or cars or broken glass or poison arrows or--"

Foggy winces harder and harder. He's seen too much blood today already. 

"--didn't stop me then. Won't stop me ever."

Matt is truly unhinged, Foggy realizes with sudden clarity. He'd realized Matt was damaged soon after they first met, years ago, and he'd thought Daredeviling was crazy -- equally masochistic and sadistic -- but at least with Matt's heart in mostly the right place. 

But curb stomping 20 guys in such a rage he couldn't tell cops from bad guys? He'd had the shards of other people's bones in his knuckles, and he'd been smiling.

Matt must detect Foggy's despair because his voice is small when he says, "I need you." 

"This is not what love looks like, Matt." It's the last card Foggy has. 

Matt's too jarred to speak. It's several seconds before he remembers to breathe. Foggy waits for Matt's breathing to match his own. It's something Matt does, he's noticed. He's still not comfortable with the idea, but for the moment he is grateful for it. It's grounding, for both of them. 

Foggy collects his thoughts. "I know you haven't had the best role models in your life for healthy love, so can you trust me on this? Stay here. We'll give our statements. Disappearing from the hospital to go bust heads won't protect me in the long run." Foggy doesn't think it'll work in the short run either, but... 

Matt's grip tightens on the edges of his casts. Foggy can hear the plastic wrappings creak.

Foggy steps forward, hand out tentatively. "I'm scared as balls of Poindexter. But I'm also a kidnapping victim and a witness. Of course I'll let the police take me in. I'm going to cooperate with the summons."

Matt looks betrayed. "I guess I deserve that," he says, finally.

Foggy exhales a heavy sigh and opts to sit on end of Matt's bed. He wants to rest his hands on Matt's knees, but doesn't when he realizes he's not certain of the extent of Matt's injuries. "If they suspected you were who you are, you'd already be in jail. I'm not giving you up, Matt. If it comes to it, I would perjure myself."

Matt's voice is low but stern. "I can't lose you."

"Let's turn that around for just one sec." It's a risky argument because Foggy knows Matt has played it over a thousand times in his head, feeling guiltier every time. Foggy's done the same. "What if I lose you?"

"You won't."

"Matt." 

"You won't."

"Fine, say you don't die out there. Say you successfully punch your way home after a very suspicious disappearance from this hospital bed. Eventually, somebody is going to question the scars and bruises on you. One or more of those cops in the ICU is going to wake up with a less-than-fuzzy memory of a violent ninja in a blood-splattered lawyer suit. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday you're going to be found out, and tried, and be found guilty and incarcerated. I still lose you." Foggy throws his arms in the air. "Game over." 

He doesn't mention that, while Matt was unconscious from blood loss and he and Claire were on hair triggers waiting for police to rush in an arrest Matt-as-Daredevil, Foggy had reached the conclusion that prison might actually be the best possible solution. Matt would be alive and also unable to hurt others. Foggy's brain tells him it's the best solution, and Foggy knows his brain is pretty sharp. But it would kill Matt's spirit to be cooped up in a prison, not to mention the threats he'd face from the people he'd put behind bars, both in and out of the mask. 

And, for better or (definitely) worse, Matt's spirit is something Foggy Nelson will fiercely protect. What's the use of saving Matt's body if he can't save Matt's heart? If it also means he gets to have Matt in his daily life, well then, that's a side bonus, not a selfish main motivation. 

Lawyers. They lie every time. 

So, instead of taking the sensible choice and letting Matt go to prison for a few years to cool off, Foggy makes a different decision. Foggy settles on deceit. 

Matt straightens suddenly. "They're coming for you."

The door opens to reveal Officer Brett Mahoney and another person wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. From the way he holds himself, Foggy suspects this second individual is also a policeman. 

"Mr. Franklin Nelson?" Asks the other man. Definitely a cop, then. Brett smirks as Foggy rises from Matt's bed.

Foggy offers his brightest smile, extending a hand. "How can I help you, Mr...?"

"Officer Chen. This is Officer Mahoney. We'd like to ask you a few questions if that's alright." He pauses, looking back and forth between Foggy and Matt. A shadow of tension passes over his face. "In private," he amends. 

"Of course. Please, call me Foggy."

As Foggy pushes aside the chair to be escorted through the door he whispers, "Follow my lead." 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Matt nod once.


	3. Step one (Wouldn't it be nice)

"This hospital waiting room is cozy and all but I'd prefer not to go into details of my trauma without my lawyer present."

Brett glares at Foggy. "Typical," he mutters.

Chen ignores the byplay. "I take it you know Mr. Murdock. Care to explain how he arrived at the location of your kidnapping before the police arrived?"

"Of course he knows Murdock," Brett begins, "I told you, he's—"

"—He's my husband," Foggy finishes calmly, examining his fingernails only to find them dirty. 

He looks up from his hands to see Brett's face approaching a shade of purple. "What the actual fu—" Brett bites of his words. "Foggy," he pleads into his palm. "Foggy, tell me something sane for once in your life."

Officer Chen's eyes flick to the bare fingers of Foggy's left hand. He glances at his wristwatch, jots a note, and levels his gaze on Foggy. "Mr. Nelson, I will now officially begin to take your statement."

"Of course," Foggy says brightly, dialing in the charm. "I know you need my account as soon as possible and I am one hundred percent in favor of cooperating with you fine officers in upholding the law, but let the record show that I haven't yet had my coffee." He glances pleadingly at Brett, who barks a sharp laugh and takes a sip from the Styrofoam cup in his hand. The aroma is sharp: hospital brew is always terrible but Foggy's stomach growls anyway. 

"You are Mr. Franklin P. Nelson?"

"Please, call me Foggy. _Please._ " 

"And you reside in Manhattan?" 

"Hell's Kitchen, born and raised. Only left for school. But surely you can get all of this from Brett." 

"Address and contact information here, Mr. Nelson." Officer Chen hands him a form and a pen. "Use your full name."

The document is standard for NYPD witness statements, the paper crisp and clean and neatly held in a clipboard. As Foggy pretends to scrutinize the mostly blank form, Chen watches, still and unblinking and standing a little too close for Foggy's comfort. 

Foggy smothers a sigh; dragging his feet doesn't seem to make Chen impatient. The man must really want to do this right. Brett sips his coffee, slurping just a bit. No help there, either. 

"Look, here's how it is: I was kidnapped on my way to meet Matty for lunch."

Brett's mouth forms the word 'Matty' soundlessly as he shakes his head, but he pitches the coffee cup into the trash and pulls out a pocket notebook to begin taking notes.

Foggy continues, "I was sharing my live location with Matt's phone; he has fancy GPS guide software. But before we met up, two guys grabbed me from behind, knocked me out, dragged me to wherever you found me." Foggy pauses, allowing the men to scribble notes. When Chen glances up at him, he swallows and continues, "The next thing I remember, the EMTs were waking me up in a dim warehouse surrounded by unconscious thugs." He holds up his hands in a shrug. "That's all I've got."

"Unconscious thugs, and unconscious police officers. And," Officer Chen clarifies, "your husband, badly injured." When Foggy simply nods, Chen pushes, "Your husband told the hospital staff he never lost consciousness."

"Look, I'm the last person to approve of Daredevil's methods, but you can't expect me to say I'm not grateful he saved us."

Officer Chen's cool demeanor isn't fazed. Foggy never realized an exhausted forty-year-old in a faded sweatshirt could be so intimidating, but then again he'd had to re-calibrate his scale of what he considered intimidating several times in the past three years. He still had mixed feelings on Matt's abs, for instance. 

"In addition to his broken arms, your husband had some unusual bruising," Chen begins. Foggy commits the comment to memory as Chen's second violation of Matt's right to medical privacy. Extra-judicial prying by an overly-nosy cop is not enough to dismiss an entire case but might be enough to suppress some key evidence. At this point, Foggy will take any edge he can get.

"Speaking of Matt being injured, I'd like to get back to him as soon as possible. If you need a statement more detailed than what I've just given you, I'll only give it with my lawyer present." He offers the clipboard back to Chen.

"He can't be your lawyer for this if he's also your husband." Chen crosses his arms over his chest and immediately uncrosses them again. He doesn't even glance at the clipboard.

"Surely, Officer Chen, you agree I'd want a lawyer I can trust. And there's nobody I trust better than Matt."

Brett looks very thoughtful at that. After a pause, he asks, "Any idea why you were kidnapped?"

"Perhaps my stunning good looks," Foggy says, glib. He pushes the clipboard into Brett's hands.

Officer Chen rolls his hands at the wrist as he surveys Brett's cool countenance. Foggy's fairly certain Brett's the superior office of the two, but it's Chen who voices his skepticism. "Mr. Nelson," he says slowly, "if I visit the county clerk's office, am I going to find a copy of your marriage certificate?"

Foggy grins, but he's sweating. Hopefully the sweat appears to be due to stresses of, y'know, having been kidnapped. "I'll do you one better. Brett, you've got our new office phone number, right? Karen can bring over our original copy of the certificate. If you call right now you can probably catch her before she heads out for morning meetings." Foggy turns toward Officer Chen. "Regardless, Matt is my lawyer."

"We'll see," Chen says. 

Brett shakes his head. "Chen, you really think you have any clue how spousal privilege and lawyer-client confidentiality work when the spouse is also the lawyer?"

Foggy inhales, still smiling. Brett is finally stepping up to the plate, probably out of sheer annoyance with Foggy. "The legal details," Foggy says, "are the fun part!" He wants to rub his palms together to show his enthusiasm but his wrists are too sore.

Brett shoots Foggy a glare and pulls Chen aside, pressing the clipboard to Chen's chest. Chen takes it with a small wince. "My advice," Brett says, too tired to bother keeping his voice down, "is not to push too hard on anything these two get tangled up in. They are royal pains in the ass, but they are damn good lawyers. If Foggy says something is legit, it probably is."

Foggy's smile is radiant. "Love you too, Brett." 

"Still gonna follow procedure and get documentation," Brett reminds Foggy, pulling out his cell phone.

"Of course. Tell her to look behind the Zhang paperwork."

"I need more coffee," Brett declares, staring out the window. He doubts all the coffee in the world could offset being caught up in another Nelson and Murdock adventure, but on the slightly brighter side, it is pouring rain in Hell's Kitchen and his shoes are still wet.

_"Wouldn't it be nice if we could wake up in the morning when the day is new..."_

Seven blocks away the weather is equally cold and rainy, apparently a perfect day for the chipper tunes of The Beach Boys to fill the air in a small but bright butcher shop. Karen doesn't mind Theo's taste in music, not exactly. The song rotation in Nelson's Meats is varied but upbeat, fitting Theo's personality of constant sunshine. It's not hard for Karen to see the personality heritage he shares as half-brother to Foggy.

Still, the upstairs floor was never designed to be a law office. With old butchery equipment shoved to the side and hidden under a tarp, it's cramped for space and stuffy. She knows they'll have to move out before May: the smell upstairs from a butcher in summer will be intolerable. As is, her heart goes out to their Jewish and Muslim and vegetarian clients. 

But, when they eventually scrape together the funds to get their own office again, she will miss the music, she realizes. And Theo's easy smile and penchant for nicknames.

Almost immediately after things had settled with Fisk (the second time 'round), Matt had suggested moving the offices of Nelson, Murdock and Page to Fogwell's Gym, but Foggy had been reluctant. He'd bemoaned that moving would strip them of "instant access to quality cured meats at reasonable prices," which was, according to Foggy, "a treasure beyond value." 

Later, when he was reasonably sure Matt was out of earshot, Foggy had explained to Karen that he didn't want Matt to be surrounded by reminders of his dead father. Karen had found herself agreeing. 

So, for now they are squatting a floor up from Nelson's Meats courtesy of Foggy's family. Karen aims to spend at least half of each day out of the tiny, meat-scented office. She's getting good at working remotely from the library, the courthouse, City and State Records Halls, and so on. This also means she has opportunities to indulge in following various hunches.

Right now, for example, she's investigating the young couple that just moved in across the street. Not because they've done anything wrong _per se_ — the only unsettling hints Karen's noted are crimes against fashion and the fact that they reportedly paid one full year's lease in cash — but thoroughly vetting new neighbors is part of making sure that the local area is safe. She knows that Hell's Kitchen will never be the kind of safe of a small town in New England, but for now she is trying to settle her nerves by making sure she and the ones she cares about are safe from surveillance by mobsters or other crime lords. She's had a rough time and some of Fisk's men could still be free and she thinks a little paranoia is warranted.

And Theo, bless his sunshine heart, is helping her unknowingly.

Karen comes down the creaking steps onto the sales floor of Nelson's Meats to find the couple chatting with Theo across the refrigerated display counter. The woman is dressed in blindingly bright colors, the man in a neat gray suit and felt hat. Karen freezes, ears sharp. From the sound of the conversation, they're ordering weekly shipments of... quite a lot of ground beef.

"Oh, hi, Karebear!" Theo chirps, turning his warm smile on her as she fumbles with the pretense of adjusting the 'WILL RETURN AT' sign on the door to the stairs that, according to a cardboard square taped to the glass, lead to the offices of Nelson, Murdock and Page.

Theo calls people by nicknames and somehow Karen doesn't mind. It's like having a brother again. But these new people are just suspicious enough that her smile is a pasted-on effort. "Good morning, Mr. Nelson," she says. 

Theo's own smile falters for a second and then his mouth rounds in a comical 'oh, I get it!' shape of realization. "Good morning," Theo glances at the customers, "Miss Page! I was just meeting the Mendozas. Here, let me introduce you."

Karen maintains the polite smile; she's distracted but her brain notes that she's Julia and he's Ernesto and they're both pleased to meet her. Karen can't imagine two more opposite-seeming people but then they open their mouths and she gets it — sort of. At odds with their outfits, Mr. Mendoza is loud and showy and Mrs. Mendoza is quiet and reserved. He pats her hand on his forearm lovingly as he talks about a restaurant he plans to open. Karen scans them for visible weapons and immediately hates the reflex, how it makes her feel marginally more safe when she sees none.

Theo beams. "How lucky is it they just moved in across the street from a butcher than can provision Mr. M with oxtail for his caldo? How lucky for us to have such classy neighbors!"

Karen agrees that, though Ernesto is loud and bubbly and Julia is quiet and demure, they are both very classy in a self-assured way. Perhaps too classy? "How are you finding Hell's Kitchen?" she probes, remembering belatedly to keep her smile up. 

Julia returns an equally slim smile and her eyes flick to Ernesto, who inhales gustily and spreads his hands. "Hell's Kitchen! Let me just say that—"

The phone rings, buzzing and insistent. Theo, up to his elbows in ground beef, looks imploringly to Karen. "Sorry, Mr. Mendoza! Ms., uh, Page, could you...?" 

"Of course," Karen dismisses herself to the Mendozas and hurries to the back room. She'll have to remember to get information out of Theo second-hand this afternoon.

Karen shifts aside a small mound of shipping labels to uncover the landline phone and picks up the receiver on the fifth ring. "Nelson building. Are you calling for a lawyer or a butcher?"

Officer Brett Mahoney, who has fielded many prank calls in his life and perpetrated a fair few of his own, stumbles for a second.

"...Page. I'm calling for Ms. Karen Page."

"So neither a lawyer nor a butcher. Your days must be a lot more boring than the ones around here."

That earns a laugh from the other end of the line. "Ha! I wish. Ms. Page, this is Officer Brett Mahoney, I'm calling on behalf of Franklin Nelson."

Brett only calls Foggy "Franklin" when he's teasing. Which means Foggy's not dead, or dying. And probably not Matt, either. At the realization, she lets out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. She runs a hand through her hair. 

"One second," she says. 

Karen shuts the stockroom door to muffle the sound of Theo regaling the Mendozas with his energetic recounting of The Nelson Family Surfing Incident. She stumbles a moment, shifting the phone to her other hand as she bats at the pause button on the sound system. The Beach Boys fall silent on the line _"...You know it seems the more we talk about it, it only makes it worse to live without it..."_

She summons another thin smile. "Officer Mahoney, how can I help you? I'll remind you that you already owe me for hinting to Foggy that he should stop supplying your mom with cigars."

Brett grunts. "Don't owe you nothin'. He didn't take the hint."

"That wasn't part of our deal."

"You sound more and more like your pet lawyers every day. I liked you better when you were a journalist, and that's saying something." 

"They're not 'my' lawyers." Her heart stutters into a higher tempo. "Unless you're saying I'm being subpoenaed...?"

"No, no," he reassures. "Not you. Look: there was an incident. Long story short, I need you bring to some paperwork to the hospital on Foggy's behalf." 

Karen's brain latches onto the word 'hospital' like a trap snapping shut. "What did Matt do this time?" She blurts.

"Matt?" Brett pauses in confusion and Karen bites back a swear: 'this time' implies other times and, so far as Brett knows, Foggy was the injured party of two recent hospital visits.

Brett speaks slowly, "Foggy was the one who was kidnapped." Then, as if an afterthought, "But they're okay. Well, Murdock will be in the hospital another day or two, but he's stable. Broken arms. And Foggy is fine, a hell of a lot better than last time."

Karen smooths one hand, then the other, down her sides to still their trembling. She barely hears herself responding, "Yea. That's... that's good." 

"You want Murdock's room number? Or should I give it to you when you get here with the paperwork?"

"Foggy texted me. Will text me."

"Right." Suspicion continues to color Brett's voice. 

"I'm sorry, officer, what exactly did you say you needed from Foggy's office?"

"A copy of the marriage certificate. Says it's—" a pause and then Brett's voice sounds distant, like he's turned his head. "You said Zhang?" His voice returns to clarity. "Foggy says it's behind the Zhang paperwork."

Karen frowns. Even accounting for Foggy's tendency to rearrange paperwork while cross-referencing, the request makes no sense. "I can look but I'll need to call you back after I get into the office."

"I thought I called you at the office," Brett begins. 

"You called the shared line downstairs."

Karen hears Foggy explaining something to the effect of "a temporary arrangement" and pictures Brett shushing him with a sweep of his hand. 

"Don't worry," Karen says, "I've got your number already." She hangs up. Staring around the cluttered room, she purses her lips, mentally prioritizing. Bizarrely, her mind keeps coming back to the fact that she's going to have to reset the hands of the clock on the "WILL RETURN AT" sign at the bottom of the stairs.

She straightens her shoulders and exits the stockroom. As she passes by, Mr. Mendoza and Theo are laughing uproariously. Mrs. Mendoza's hand is still on her husband's arm and she's smiling, but her eyes track Karen across the room. Karen is careful not to stare back.

Karen dials Brett's number on her cell phone after climbing the stairs and letting herself back into the office. If anything, the space feels smaller and more claustrophobic than a few minutes ago. 

Brett picks up with a grunt of "One second." There's a muffled sound like a hand over the microphone that does little to block his voice. 

"Foggy, she knows, right?" 

Karen can't decipher the muffled response. 

"Not complicated," Brett insists, "It's a yes or no question! I swear on my father's grave, Foggy--"

"Officer Mahoney," Karen interrupts, "I don't see any sort of marriage paperwork associated with the Zhang documents." As well she shouldn't: the Zhang case involves a series of noise complaints filed against an elderly widow.

"Not in the folder; he said it was behind those papers."

"Z is the last letter of the alphabet. Behind Z comes a wall."

"Wait, now he's saying it might be in the closed cases drawer, behind the Zimmerman paperwork?" Brett relays. The Zimmerman case had involved a client who'd refused to cooperate with a search warrant because he'd been convinced the police were retrieving illegally planted electronic surveillance bugs.

Karen stands, shuffles over to the other towering filing cabinet and verifies that Zimmerman is the last entry there. "Can you ask Foggy if he's sure it was filed with casework?" 

Brett relays question, waits for Foggy to answer. Then, "He says he's 'pretty sure' and to check Zimmerman again."

"Nope, it's not there," Karen says to Brett. Brett repeats for Foggy, then pauses.

"Well, what about mixed in with the Zhang case?" Brett relays. Karen shuffles back over, takes a moment to look, responds in the negative. Brett repeats for Foggy.

Foggy stalls a second then says loudly into the phone, "Try the old filing cabinet, the one with the bent rail." 

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Nelson, you talk to her!" Brett hands over phone. 

"Hi, Karen!"

"Foggy..."

"Don't worry, I'm fine, Matt's fine. Nothing like a light kidnapping to make you feel alive."

Karen wants to punch something. 

"I know this sounds crazy," Foggy continues on, "but you could try looking in the bottom drawer of my desk, on the left? Could be under the finance documents."

Karen runs a hand through her hair as if pushing it up and out of the way would somehow clarify this baffling situation. She bends over Foggy's desk drawer and shoves aside the hanging folders. Nothing.

"Foggy..." 

"I know, I know. It looks like a mess but I assure you it is completely organized according to my patented Nelson-brand filing system. I'm a genius but I can't help it if the rest of the world doesn't see it."

Karen drums her fingers in frustration. The metal dividing panel shifts slightly to reveal the tumblers of a combination lock: the back wall of the drawer is false! She gasps, then groans. "I can't believe I'm surprised you have a hidden compartment in your desk drawer."

"You remember, that's from Matt's birthday," Foggy insists. 

Karen pauses a half-second. "Foggy, are you talking to me in code because Brett's listening in?"

"Ha, yea. We had a great time!" 

Karen introduces the desk to her forehead with a light thump. "Let me get this straight. I open whatever this is and it should explain why Brett is asking after somebody's marriage certificate?"

Foggy's voice is chipper, but she can hear the strain. "I hope so! Matt says he doesn't want you to get anything for the one year anniversary, but I disagree, so let's ignore him and get the special he likes from JayJay's bakery near 14th and 42nd? And now Brett is giving me the stinkeye -- Brett, I know you're jealous of cake but pouting is unbecoming of an officer of the law -- gotta go! Here's Brett. Thanks for the help. Bye!" 

Foggy deposits the cell phone back into Brett's hand with a grin. Brett wearily arranges for Karen to meet Officer Chen in the hospital reception area with the certificate. Chen notes Karen's cell number and then takes off toward the elevator before Brett's hung up. 

Foggy rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands at the small of his back and feigning intense interest in the rain-streaked window. He turns around as Brett tells Karen goodbye. 

"I was thinking--" Foggy begins, but Brett interrupts. 

"Not another word. Every time you open your mouth, my world becomes unimaginably weirder."

Foggy laughs and steps forward, gesturing down the hall with an open palm and offering Brett his elbow. Foggy waggles his eyebrows.

Brett stares. After a beat, he pushes past Foggy, muttering, "You two deserve each other." His back is straight but his stiff marching steps squeak on the linoleum floor: his shoes are still wet. 

Brett knocks lightly on the door to Matt's hospital room. As soon as Matt's called "Come in," he launches into sharp questioning, not pausing a second. "Why aren't you wearing a ring, Matt?"

Foggy stumbles, just slightly, but Brett's focus is on Matt. Matt turns in their direction, more toward Foggy than Brett. Foggy leans back and pushes the door shut with a click, throwing a quick, desperate glance heavenward. "I've shut the door," he reassures, "It's only me and Brett." Brett has the grace to look guilty at not having announced himself.

Matt nods his thanks. He answers calmly and without hesitation. "I assume you mean a ring to indicate that I'm a married man? I'm Catholic. There is a... complicated interplay between my legal and religious marital statuses."

Brett takes a half-step backward at the mention of religion.

Foggy jumps in. "And if I wore a ring, Bess would have caught us in a minute." 

Brett can't suppress a smile. "She's sharp like that." 

Foggy nods sagely. "Part of her charm." 

Brett looks from Matt to Foggy and back, then sighs. "I suppose this is why he's your medical proxy?"

"That," Matt agrees, "and when it comes to filling out paperwork Foggy's a fair sight better than me."

Brett gets halfway through an absent nod before suddenly stilling. His eyes go wide on Matt. Foggy claps Brett on the back and stage whispers, "Be a good sport and laugh at my stupid blind husband's stupid blind jokes or you'll hurt his delicate feelings."

Brett lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "This is really for real? You're not pranking me? I feel like I should be looking for a hidden camera or some shit." 

Matt extends a hand. Foggy reaches for it without hesitation and squeezes.

Matt's voice is even. "I assure you, Officer Mahoney: Foggy is my rock." 

Brett's grunt says: no argument there. Then, he grouses at Foggy, "Some friend to not even invite me to your wedding."

"I would have made you be my best man but we didn't exactly have a public ceremony," Foggy says in earnest. "Really."

Matt explains, "Given that we're also business partners with professional appearances to keep, we preferred our closer ties be kept quiet. I know our relationship must come as a surprise."

Brett snorts. "Not really. But I get your drift. I'll try to get the City Records paperwork handled quietly. The certificate is filed here in NYC, right? Ms. Page's photocopy will do in the short run but I might need a notarized copy after we sort through all of the Devil's latest victims."

Through their interlaced fingers, Foggy can feel Matt stiffen. Foggy nods vigorously to distract Brett from seeing him squeeze Matt's fingers again. 'Karen's got this,' he wills the squeeze to say. 

"We understand," Foggy says. "Thank you."

"Well, congratulations, I guess." Brett gives them one last scrutinizing look, then shakes his head before moving to the door. "At least this way I don't have to buy you a toaster."

Foggy grins. "Aw, Brett, you do care!"

"Please. We both know it would have been from a gift from mom, not me."

Back at Nelson, Murdock and Page, Karen _so_ does not got this. 

She's looking at a marriage certificate from the great state of New York. The marriage certificate from the great state of New York has been signed by Franklin Percy Nelson. The very same marriage certificate has also been signed by Matthew Michael Murdock. 

She plonks down into Foggy's desk chair, caught between laughing out loud and screaming in frustration.

The signatures are legitimate; she's seen both of theirs frequently enough to be confident in that.

But the marriage certificate — Matt and Foggy's certificate! for marriage! to each other! — had been locked in a hidden compartment in Foggy's desk. After a puzzled moment, she'd realized the lock's combination was Matt's birthday. The only other thing in the compartment had been a square sticky note affixed to the certificate: 'Just in case,' read Foggy's handwriting in pen, words gouged deep into the yellow paper.

There's no date on the certificate. It's not notarized. There's no county clerk's or judge's or witness's signature. It can't possibly be valid. Just her bosses' signatures: spouse #1 and spouse #2.

But Foggy had said their one year anniversary was coming up. They wouldn't have kept this from her, not after everything. Would they?

No. No, she has to trust they wouldn't lie about this or else she'll explode with rage. This must be a Daredevil thing. A really weird, oddly romantic Daredevil thing.

Karen sighs deeply and crumples the yellow sticky note into a ball. She tosses the ball at the recycling bin, misses, stands, retrieves it, drops it into the bin, and then paces for several minutes. Lyrics from The Beach Boys filter up the stairs, commenting that _"Maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray, it might come true."_

Karen sighs and then hauls out her cell phone. If she's going to plant a bogus marriage certificate in City Records on 14th and 42nd, she needs to beg a favor from an expert. 

Glancing at Foggy's desk clock, she's sees the time is getting on 9:30 in the morning.

The boys are going to owe her big for waking up Jess Jones.

**Author's Note:**

> For katbelle's Daredevil exchange prompt: "all I want for the holidays is emotional devastation" with added bonus marriage-as-reins-on-the-Devil. This is by far the most complex fic I've attempted, both plot-wise and emotionally. I hope it crushes your heart in all the ways you wanted, katbelle!


End file.
